


Fulcrum

by Potboy



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potboy/pseuds/Potboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of my usual 'feeling my way into these characters' introspection pieces. Set during "The Greater Good" In which Rush is surprised to find that Young hasn't killed him after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fulcrum

When consciousness is finally torn from Rush – when he's throttled into the dark by the pressure of Young's arm – he doesn't expect ever to wake up again. Fortunately Young is as indecisive about murder as he is about everything else, so some undefined time later Rush fades back in. His throat is less bruised than he'd expect, but his head throbs blindingly and there's a patch of red agony in the shape of Young's knuckles over his eye.

He moves an arm in protest, gathering himself to rise. Young is already up, prowling around him, standing over him, apparently completely untouched. And that hurts Rush far worse than any physical injury. He hates this. He hates it – this atavistic, animalistic male dominance instinct that even he can't completely shake off. He hates the part of himself that says 'Stay down. You've been beaten.' It's the same part that panicked when it was left alone in this sealed metal box with the other man, that made him sound so fucking scared, so fucking pathetic that he can't bear the memory of his own voice over the comms.

He hates the fact that Young is going to think he's somehow won, even though it proves nothing. It proves nothing about their relative worth that Young is bigger and stronger and can put him down whenever he pleases. Young's still an idiot, still useless, unfit, unworthy. A pathetic wreck of a man who can't govern himself, let alone Rush's ship. 

I will take you out, Rush thinks, as he is allowed to pull himself into a sitting position and huddle against the cold, cold wall. It offends him on a deep philosophical level to know that he's being permitted this recovery because of Young's... what, his mercy? His magnanimity? Does he think he can afford to patronise Rush now, as if he's finally rendered him harmless?

It would be nice to think that Young is afraid of the repercussions of killing him, but frankly if the crew could not shake off Young's leadership after he left Rush for dead the first time, they are hardly going to do it now that he's more established. Young's position is stronger now, he has less to fear.

And he's responding to that by being less ruthless. By letting Rush recover, by waiting for an explanation. 

That's an interesting thought. Beyond contempt for the man's obvious inadequacies, Rush hasn't given a lot of consideration to Young's character. It never seemed worth the mental space, since he was so clearly some kind of military neanderthal without the capability to understand or the imagination to care about intellectual goals. He needed to be replaced, and so Rush had tried to replace him.

Rush curls into a ball, his hair and the heel of his hand concealing his face, giving him privacy to think. He has the queasy, unanchored feeling he associates with a theory coming apart under testing, the nag of a missed step, a false assumption.

Throw out the two occasions on which Young has beaten him by force. They prove nothing. But on three separate occasions, Rush has bent his not inconsiderable intellect to the task of removing Young from command. He has framed Young for murder. He has instigated a mutiny. He has taken advantage of Young's own emotional breakdown to insist that Scott should take charge. Three times he and Young have fought on more equal grounds, and each time Young has emerged from the contest stronger, more securely in place. Here he still is, relaxed against the far wall with his rifle cradled in his hands, looking irritated and confused and curious as if he honestly wants to hear what Rush has to say.

Rush's hair aches. He sighs, hugging himself, more than just his body shaken up. Time to admit, perhaps, that Young believes he has won because he has won.

There are two possible explanations for such an unthinkable outcome. One: Rush is not as clever as he thinks he is. Two: Young is more formidable than Rush has previously supposed. 

The first of these possibilities can be ruled out on ample evidence, and thus he is left with the second. Young must have something about him that gives him an edge. Rush can't, admittedly, think what it can be – something slow, immovable and patient, no doubt. Something that waits and waits and waits for the right moment – and then strikes, unexpectedly sure. One of those wordless, instinctive qualities, perhaps, with which humanity keeps baffling Rush by their ability to always make the most irrational choice.

But there's no point in flying in the face of evidence. No point in arguing that the truth ought not to be the truth. He's heard the fury and betrayal in Eli's voice over the comms, Brody and Volker and Scott reinforcing it with their own. Young's right, they're never going to trust him again. He'll be lucky if he gets out of this without being lynched.

The stars shine through the eye-like window between them, as Rush reengages with the outside world. Young is sitting opposite him, all in black, his face standing out against dark clothes, dark metal walls, his dark unruly curls. It's a classical face, like the bust of a Roman boxer, closed over whatever passes for thought with the man. Rush has only ever seen him smile as a prelude to violence, so the calm is appreciated.

He's afraid of Young, but he's more afraid of the mob-mentality to which he has to go back. He's tried talking down a room full of angry morons before, and it didn't go well. He can't imagine it will go better this time. Time for a new strategy, then. If he can't do this alone, and he can't replace Young with anyone more tractable, and he can't handle the outraged crowd without making them want to rip him to pieces, something new is required.

Time to turn Young from an enemy into an asset. The man has some inexplicable hold over the crew, and that is exactly what Rush needs now. A protector. Someone to deal with the great unwashed for him, while he gets on with the important things.

He wishes now he'd made more of a study of the man's character, but he can hardly avoid noticing that Young values honesty, honour, plain dealing. Given that Rush has underestimated him before, it's worth testing to see if he can understand the real gravity of the mission. One surely doesn't become a Colonel in the Air Force without some sense of adventure, some curiosity, and who wouldn't be intrigued by Destiny's ultimate mystery?

Recalibrate, recover, change tack, use the man's newly discovered strength to his own purposes and turn this defeat into a win. It sounds like a workable plan. “So,” he says, at length, playing humble, defeated, for all he's worth. “Where do we go from here?”

“We go back to Destiny, and then you tell us everything you've found out.” Young's voice is implacable but gentle. He's not giving Rush the option to argue, but he is sparing Rush's tender feelings as far as he can, sparing him the overt humiliation of defeat. Rush sighs inwardly and tips his head back to rest against the metal plating of the wall, relieved.

So, no one's going to die today, and Young may prove to be useful after all. All is not lost. He can work with this. 

Gingerly, he touches the bruise around his eye. He has to work with this. Young has won. He has no choice.


End file.
